


The Rose with the Lamp

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Freeform, Gen, Goldie tends to her idiot miser, Hurt/Comfort, Permanent Injury, Scrooge is an idiot, The Nightingale Effect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 07:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19001521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: “What? You wanted me to lose my leg due to early 1900s medical malpractice,” he defended.“Seventy five years, Scrooge.”“And don’t get me started on insurance,” his scowl deepened, “do you know how many times I've had to listen to some receptionist tell me ‘I’m sorry Mr. McDuck. You didn’t meet your deductible, so you have to pay an unbelievably outrageous dollar amount to see Dr. Vanderbill?”"Color me surprise that I find it difficult to draw up sympathy towards your backward American healthcare system complaint when you're the richest duck in the world," she teased, sending him a pointed look that made him blush.--An injury from a century ago gives Scrooge problems one day. He's fortunate Goldie happens to be in town.





	The Rose with the Lamp

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after "Nothing Can Stop Della Duck!"

An instinct Goldie wasn’t emotionally fit to dissect alerted her that something wasn’t right the moment her motorcycle parked on the front lawn. She removed her helmet, gold crowning her head like a halo, and studied the mansion. Her visits were often associated with discreet silence; a thief preferred a shroud of darkness.

Knots vacated her intestines; there was no reason for them tangle her frustration. Anticipation steeled her nerves as she loaded twenty one and a half retorts. He was quick witted and sharp tongued. Her job was to exceed him. Relying moonlight was a partial necessity if occasionally superfluous; she'd performed this trick countless times. In less than fifteen seconds, she opened the fifteenth bedroom window. Hoisting the bag inside was harder than anticipated but not so much that she didn't complete it with minimal strain.

She bided her time on the windowsill. Her attention passed over appropriately designed wallpaper and closets. It tip toed over the vanity dresser where he kept his small collection of personal jewelry and belongings. She hoisted one leg over the other and closed the window behind her, snapping the latch shut. A small desk lamp was the room’s sole illumination. With a sniff and glare, she measured the silence in the room and determined this wasn’t the same dense silence thrown at her ten years prior.

Soft snores and sleep riddled conversations drooled to the room. Their echoes reaffirmed the house was full, and at its core, her worries started to recede. Her nightly arrival was more of an emotional call than anything else, she realized. Alas, she shortened her vacation and booked the earliest flight to Duckburg as soon as she received the international text. That was an argument for a later date. She dragged her bag and placed it in one of the sitting chairs. With a sigh, she sat at the edge of the bed, inches from where he lied, currently reading through a black journal labeled “Investments” in pale gold. She smirked.

Scrooge didn’t look up from his journal. His ballpoint pen scratched hurriedly. Number after number, she imagined, with its accompanying event. He recorded all things relevant to his businesses, globetrotting included. She smirked at the gesture. An idle thought wondered what he’d written about her in that seemingly endless journal of his. He lifted his gaze towards her and scoffed. “You wish your name was in this journal,” he answered. “It reads investments, not calamity.”

“Oh please,” she laughed earnestly. Her hair fell out of its loose ponytail and covered her shoulders, “If it weren’t for me some of your best investments would’ve fallen underground.” She noted he was dressed in a pale blue night dress, surrounded in a wreath of pillows. An eyebrow arched skeptically. "Are those orthopedic pillows, Scroogey," she chuckled. His red cheeks were all the confirmation she needed.

“My back went out in Brazil,” he explained evenly. He set his journal aside on the small dresser table, in front of the dim reading lamp he acquired in China twenty years ago. “When we returned Huey insisted I visit my physician.” He rolled his eyes, a strange combination of frustration and affection, “There wasn’t anything wrong with me for sure, but the quack said I should invest in an orthopedic pillow.” As the words left his mouth, Goldie noticed the green tinge underneath the red.

“So you bought ten?”

“The first one was unbelievably comfortable,” he justified.

She chuckled softly. “You could’ve always gone to Wronguay or visited Father Time for another round of rock, paper, scissors,” she offered gently. “Wouldn't have to waste your money.” She pointed to his leg cushioned with velvet pillows and clasped in an unusual metal brace. “I’m going to assume your doctor insisted on checking that out.”

His whiskers bristled at that, and she laughed even more as she reached for her bag. It was a gold-green carpet bag manufactured in the early 1900s. A bold, golden emblem was stitched on its front. Scrooge sneered at the thing. Its' innocent appearance was a hard designed facade. An immobile, inanimate object, numerous secrets were thrust inside its pockets and proved far more insidious than they knew, but he didn't protest her downward journey.

She procured three lipstick bottles, two handful of dirty receipts, a moonstone dagger, her foundation and hand mirror. She lined them neatly on the edge of the bed. Grumbling to herself, she widened the purse and buried her head inside.

“Goldie, I won’t get you out if you fall in again,” Scrooge warned, leaning forward to grab her arm.

“It’s in here somewhere,” she snapped. She’d envisioned placing the object in the back with such clearness that it had to be a memory. “I just need to reach a little deeper,” she grunted. Down to her waist was hidden from view. Metal scratched on metal, clawing at his eardrums, but he said nothing. He peered in the back, pushing her hair aside, and caught sight of empty violet darkness. Stars glittered on the outskirts.

“You never did tell me where you got this thing,” he frowned, more than a little concerned. He knew there was no reason, but knots in his stomach started to form. “I don’t want this,” he jabbed the bag roughly, “exploding in the mansion. It’ll wake the children.”

The bag growled. Scrooge glared, retreating ever so slightly, and from within its hide, Goldie chuckled.

“Do that again, and it may bite your finger off.” She sighed in surprise, “What do you know, there is a finger in here. The gold finger of King Midas!”

An interesting item of morbid origin, Scrooge dismissed it. "Goldie, the bag," an eye motioned to the personal item. 

"Oh, that," she shimmied further down. "I borrowed it from an English nanny."

“An English nanny?"

"It's probably infelicitous to call her that," Goldie's back jerked. Pulling back as whatever she gripped tugged in the opposite direction. “I'd say she's more fairy than witch. Either way, I procured it from her sometime in the 60s. She wasn't pleased."

“And you got away scot free?”

"Honestly?" She tossed her head back at last, almost breathless. "I didn't."

“Oh?”

Wounded pride twisted on her face. "I'm not proud," she began to pull. "It was furious with me. Everything I put inside it was either destroyed or lost or regurgitated," she shivered at the memory, and Scrooge didn't pry for clarification. "She knew the entire time. I pilfered her, and she coerced me into returning the damn thing without raising a single finger."

“Like a disgruntled customer?”

She scowled at him. "Hey," she snapped half-heartedly. Self-awareness told them her annoyance was tied to her naivety rather than Scrooge's apt observation. She got on the floor and heaved, “I was the most polite and respectful thief she’d ever met. Fortunately, it was easy to find her. Had to follow the East wind to London. Cordial, cheerful, the vision of English etiquette. She even prepared a cup of infernal tea for the occasion.”

“She knew you were coming,” he smirked.

Goldie rolled her eyes but conceded. “Yeah, yeah,” a mahogany tip appeared, inch by inch. “She told me I was more than welcome to keep it, but carpet bags are notoriously sentimental and grow deep attachments with its owners. This one recently lost theirs.”

Scrooge raised a hand to pause her. “Wait, so what you’re saying is she wanted you to take it?”

Goldie paused in her motions. "Wait," she blinked. "No." She shook her head. "No, no, no." 

Scrooge could barely stifle the laughter bubbling in his throat. He realization dawned in belated embarrassment.

"Fine," she conceded harshly. At last, the mahogany coat rack started to reveal itself. Up and up Goldie pulled. "She wanted to get rid of the damn thing, and I made an ample opportunity." Frowning, befuddled memories began to click. "The point is I didn't have to pay for it, and her conviviality would make Beakley green with envy. I call that a win.”

Scrooge watched her extract the coat rack in its entirety and noticed a small tube resting on its end. It toppled onto the bed, falling off the side and landed near his ankle.

“Goldie, dear,” he reached for the tube, “is this what you’re looking for?”

Goldie pulled the last of the coat rank and stumbled back, letting it hit the floor with a moderate clank, then thud. The blood vessels in her hands sparked and complained, but the job was done. She glanced at Scrooge and saw the small tube he grasped.

“See,” she panted and gestured, stepping over the fallen coat rack, “I told you I had it.”

“I don’t know why you still do,” he mumbled, tossing the tube to her the moment she returned to bed. He leaned back, head resting on a feather plucked pillow.

“Says the codger who refused proper medical attention for a leg fracture for over seventy five years,” she opened the tube and applied a stream of it on his leg.

“What? You wanted me to lose my leg due to early 1900s medical malpractice,” he defended.

“Seventy five years, Scrooge.”

“And don’t get me started on insurance,” he ranted, scowl deepened, “do you know how many times I've had to listen to some receptionist tell me ‘I’m sorry Mr. McDuck. You didn’t meet your deductible, so you have to pay an unbelievably outrageous dollar amount to see Dr. Vanderbill.”

Goldie slid her hands up and down the leg, burying the majority of moisture into the place where the leg was originally injured.

"Color me surprise that I find it difficult to draw sympathy towards your backward American healthcare system complaint when you're the richest duck in the world," she teased, sending him a pointed look that forced a blush out of him.

“That isn’t the point,” he retorted weakly. The gel had taken immediate effect, and the sharp pain responsible for stunting his productive work day softened. “Make sure you go under the leg, astór,” he whined quietly.

Goldie laughed and nodded. “Don’t worry, Scroogey. I didn’t forget,” she lifted his leg just a fraction and raked her fingers through.

His skin absorbed the gel instantly. His pain receded, and he groaned, muscles relaxing under her administrations.

“Do you keep a tube of Wronguay springs gel water with you everywhere you go,” he patted the empty side of the bed.

Goldie wiped her hands on her jeans and shimmied them off. She dropped the rest of her clothes into the bag, just to replace them with a mint green nightgown. A personal favorite of theirs. She ran her fingers through her hair, relieved and reposed, before climbing in bed to rest at his side.

“It’s mixed with Demogorgona dragonblood,” she nestled onto his chest, resting a hand on fluffy chest feathers while his bill nestled on her hair. “Its potent properties are extremely useful for healing.”

“And causing fires during bloody revolutions.”

"You can't possibly blame me for that," she chuckled, raising her head to smirk at him. "I am not a woman to waste an opportunity."

“I won’t this time,” he said, snuggling close to press his beak onto hers. They smiled into the kiss, surprisingly chaste for them. He cupped her cheek, pushing back a wave of hair. She gripped his whiskers, sighing and moaning as his warmth melded with hers.

But restraint was stronger than lust. Or was it concern that pushed her away, smiling softly in apology.

“The leg needs to rest, Scroogey,” she kissed his cheek. “We’re just lucky this is an early night.”

Scrooge pouted, but nodded his assent. “I suppose you’re right,” he turned to shut off the lamp, “I promised the kids we’d visit the Netherworld Memorial Museum tomorrow.”

“That’s sweet,” she sighed, accepting this welcome change of topic. “The nuggets will love chattering with the ghosts, especially Lollipop and Peppermint?”

“Lollipop? Peppermint?”

“The pink and red one.”

“Oh,” he clicked his tongue, “Webby and Huey. Yes, they’re excited to see the fabled museum for themselves. It’ll be a learning experience for them. Lena and Violet will join us as well.”

Goldie’s brown folded. “Lena and Violet,” she read his expression and noted its tender casualness. “Gonna say you've opened your home to every orphan you can find, miser."

A sound akin to a chuckle and offended gasp throttled out his mouth. He tightened his grip on her upper arm. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted, quietly. “I don’t really mind it. Donald is on vacation. Della is home and safe. Lena...well, all children deserve a home.”

“And the hummingbird?”

“So, you’ve been paying attention,” he grinned wryly. “Yes, Violet’s parents are strange but lovely.” His smile tied her intestines in knots. Heat rose to her cheeks. She wanted to look away but couldn’t, not while his attention held her so lovingly. “You could always join us,” he offered.

That did the trick.

“Please,” she dismissed quietly. “What’s there to steal? To dazzle? It’s just a museum full of ghosts and hauntings. Hard pass.”

“Such a shame, really,” he inhaled. “The kids would love to know more about the Amber Rose of the Netherworld, and,” he whispered into her hair, “Louie would love to see you again.”

Goldie returned to his chest, doing her best to ignore that warmth below her stomach, or maybe it was on the sides. She wasn’t sure. “As long as you rest that leg during the night,” sighed, rolling her neck to meet him one last time, “then I will consider -,” she glared briefly, “just consider, joining you on this treasure-less outing.”

“Yes, yes,” he sighed. “I’ll give it a rest.” He turned off the lamp, but the seed was planted. 

"Thank you," he sighed dreamily. "Thank you for coming, astór."

"Any time, Scroogey."

Every time was more of an apt reply, but neither were willing to make an argument out of nothing, not this time. Sleep was a reluctant visitor on easier days. Days were busy, and nights were long. But they found instant peace the moment the light was switched off. Goldie blamed the sound of his beating heart beneath her ear. Scrooge affirmed it was her snores that produced a white noise effect guaranteed to knock him out in ten seconds.

Their excuses were irrelevant. By time dawn's affable light awoke them, their appetites were sated.

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched "The Outlaw Scrooge McDuck" and couldn't accept that Scrooge didn't have any problems with his leg. He either broke or fractured the thing and decided the best thing to do medically was pop it back into place somehow. That's why he uses a cane. It isn't because of how old he is. It's because he's an idiot.
> 
> But he's Goldie's idiot, darn it, and that's what matters.


End file.
